True Confessions of Contract Killer
by Adrian Lenoit
Summary: Tarafel looks into her past, searching for answers as she describes her countless strange experiences while working as an assassin.
1. Prologue

_Author's note: This is the beginning of a side project I'm working on, but this is only a prologue/introduction. It's yet to be completely edited and there are more chapters to come, so, if it grabs you, come back soon to check for changes. Even if it doesn't grab you, come back and read again once I've added something substantial. Y'know, just in case. :)_

* * *

I remember being told by someone, I've long since forgotten who, to write as if you're speaking to someone. In that case, the first order of business is an introduction. My name is Tarafel, a Bosmer. I was born in Valenwood and, though I stopped counting long ago, I'd estimate I'm about 133 years old. I'm an assassin by trade, but I've had other occupations, none of which are very important. I've decided to write these memoirs as an experiment in introspection. Never in all my years have I met someone like me. I cannot relate to those who have emotions because I so rarely feel my own. I'm sure I have them, as I've experienced fear, excitement, happiness, satisfaction, even love. However, these sensations are few and far between, and when I do feel them I'm never able to express them as others do. I've often wondered what made me the way I am. Perhaps I'll find answers in these writings.

I fancy myself more than simply an assassin. From time to time, I've called myself many things, but assassin is the truest of titles. I harbor no feelings of romanticism toward my occupation. It is a primal, ugly, brutal thing I do, taking a man's life for no reason other than the fact someone is paying me to do so.

This is not to say I don't enjoy my work. In fact, I've made something of an art out of murder. The human body has myriad interesting responses to different substances, and with each contract I try something new. But, at the end of the day murder is only murder. A man dies, someone pays me, then I move on. I'm an avid reader, I'll admit, and every work I've ever read about spies or assassins tends to have the same characters. The dark, mysterious assassin who revels with the thrill of each life taken, who is object of affection of every doe-eyed male she comes into contact with. The brooding male, never allowing his enemies to see their death coming, always carrying a weight on their conscience over the lives they've taken, as if their remorse somehow negates their deeds. The dark, tragic, adventurous, romantic life of a hired killer. Either one is likely to, at one point or another, romp with their romantic interest before leaving them, either going off to die or never be seen again. This spares the innocent from being dragged into a horrid existence.

Allow me to make one thing perfectly clear. There is no romanticism in poisoning someone's wine. There is even less in watching the victim sputter, mouth frothing over with blood, while his wife and children watch in horror. The young ones scream, burying their faces in mommy's shoulder, while mother herself shrieks until her voice is strained. A funny thing I've noticed is that when mother-dearest is the one who hired me in the first place, she often feigns swooning when her beloved suddenly hemorrhages all over the dinner table and any nearby guests. I suppose she wouldn't want to be found out due to an unconvincing performance.

In my experience, there are only two types of assassin. There are those like me, who kill because it's the thing they know best. The other is the type who does it because they enjoy killing, be it because of the thrill of the hunt, some vaporous religious mission, or simply out of pure savagery. Unfortunately, the latter outweigh the former, and often die early in their career due to their zeal. They'll linger, wanting to draw out every moment of pain or attempt to see how long it takes for a victim to bleed out. I once met a Khajiit who would stare, unblinking, into the eyes of his dying victims, trying to witness the exact moment the spark faded from their eyes. He died due to his foolishness. Any alternate motives an assassin has quickly lose their importance when angry guards bearing sharp swords are breathing down your neck, but mistakes are often realized only when one is already facing the consequences.

I am one of the former, as are most who live to retire. I kill simply because I have a talent for doing so. My experiments are performed simply out of curiosity, and I'm never without a back-up plan should something get out of hand. Were I to be perfectly honest, there's another reason I'm a murderer rather than an archer in some country's legion or a hunter living in the woods and killing for sport. With as much honesty as I can muster, there is security in my occupation. For as long as our history is recorded, people have wanted other people to die. They'll pay for it to be done, and they'll pay _well._ But, I suppose I'm beginning to ramble. All of this is neither here nor there.

It's strange. Although I have many personal accounts with which to fill these pages, I find myself having trouble deciding where to start. Luckily, I have plenty of time to decide. For now, I think I shall set this project aside and enjoy the rest of my evening. The nights are quite pleasant during Mid Year, particularly in The Heartlands. I purchased a bottle of wine earlier this week, so perhaps I'll enjoy a glass or two before settling down for the evening. I'm eager to begin this experiment in earnest, but perhaps some forethought is necessary to decide exactly where to begin. I'll sleep on it, as they say, and allow myself to order my thoughts.


	2. Delber, Taker Of Souls

During one of many nights I spent in the Imperial Prison I met a most peculiar man, leading me to have the only experience I've never been able to explain. I find this topic appropriate for the first entry into my new diary, as there's always been an unanswered question linked to this tale, and the whole purpose of keeping this journal, retroactive as it may be, is to answer questions about myself.

The Imperial Prison is the finest facility of incarceration I've ever had the opportunity to stay in. It's relatively clean, the meat is generally free of maggots, and the guards are punctual and relatively polite. Much better than the filthy dungeon in Bravil or the bitter cold of Bruma's prison. I was brusquely escorted to a cell after failing to go unnoticed whilst palming two bottles of Cyrodiilic brandy from The Gilded Carafe. Youth and inexperience are to blame for this. Of course, I knew better than to attempt any sort of escape. Even today I'd simply serve my time, the security is absolutely exquisite.

Sleeping is the easiest way to kill time while incarcerated, and I always make a point to catch up on lost rest during my stays, few and far between as they are. A sudden, loud clang roused me from my slumber. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, drowsily plodding over to the door of my cell to see my new neighbor. Across the hall from me, a tall, mostly naked Redguard now occupied a cell. I'd never seen anything like him before. His skin was light, though still darker than my own, and he was very muscular. He reminded me of descriptions of ancient Yokudan natives, a body built for hunting in the wilds, his head shaved smooth. This modern relic wore only a pair of worn sack cloth pants tied at the waist with a frayed length of rope. Other than being particularly well constructed, one other feature stood out. A traditional Ohmes-Khajiit tattoo decorated his face, a less felinesque variation of the Khajiiti marking. If I were to make any assumption on his heritage, I'd say he may have been some mixture of Redguard, Nord, and Khajiit.

I must have stared at him a bit too long. After a moment he looked back at me, slumping against the wall of his cell until he sat upon the floor.

"Greetings, sister," he greeted, his voice deep and rich, certainly a trait of Nordic men, "What brings you here this night?" There seemed to be a strange smile on his face, a sort of self-satisfied look, as if he knew something I didn't.

"The same thing that brings you here. What brings anyone to a place like this?" I replied to him, becoming curious.

He grinned at me, showing two rows of perfectly white teeth. The sight unnerved me, but I'm sure it didn't show.

"I'm here because I murdered a man," he stated nonchalantly, smug smile never fading. He was proud of his crime. "I'll not be here come the dawn. I simply needed a free place to sleep. I so rarely travel with money these days, but the guard is always happy to render lodgings."

"I don't know where you're from, but they must have rather liberal laws regarding murder there. In the Empire, the punishment for murder is much harsher than a simple night in prison," I corrected him. At least, I _thought_ I'd corrected him.

He assured me of his awareness, still insisting he'd be departing early.

I sat for a few moments, perplexed by the man. He either had no idea how difficult the Imperial City's finest were, or he thought himself strong enough to take them on. While he certainly didn't seem a weakling, a half-dozen well-armed men in a narrow corridor were certain to be more than a match for even The Gray Prince.

After a moment, I posed a question.

"Who did you kill?" Curiosity got the best of me. I couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't someone I knew.

"A beggar," he responded, turning to face me entirely, large, callused hands gripping the thick bars of his cell. "But that's not why I'm here. Killing the beggar wasn't my true purpose."

"Then what is? Why did you kill the beggar?"

The Redguard looked at me for a few moments, showing those immaculately straight white teeth again. "There is a man here, in this very prison, who I am seeking. My master has guided me to him."

"Who is your master? Sithis?" I found myself more and more interested. What sort of man faced me? A religious zealot? A trained assassin, like myself? A garden-variety lunatic?

"My master is not Sithis," he replied, face suddenly stern as if I'd offended him by implying his deity might have a name, "he is not a Daedra, nor is he one of the Nine Divines. My master is beyond names, for he needs not a throng of worshipers. He picks his servants by hand, whispering his will into their ears. He resides all around us, watching, interfering only when he deems it fit. His will is abstract, ever flowing, shifting like water. Some glorious day, everyone shall know his name. Everyone shall do his bidding. The heavens will rain his glory and the earth itself shall sing his praises!" After the brief speech from his imaginary pulpit, he calmed himself, clearing a sheet of glistening sweat from his forehead with one brawny hand.

"Do you have a name at least?" So rarely does one meet someone so delirious they've actually written a whole new religion. I've met men who hear voices, or believe their sword is commanding them, but I'd never encountered such pure dementia before or since.

"My name is Delber," he replied simply, lowering his head to me, "humble servant of He who surrounds us. Taker of souls," he greeted, his words chilling me a bit. "What are you called, sister?"

"Tarafel. What do you mean you're a taker of souls?"

He said nothing at first, simply looking past me, right through the window of my cell. He then looked directly into my eyes, and something took hold of me. I couldn't look away from him, from the eyes which seemed to glow fiercely in the dim light of the prison.

"You should get some sleep. You are very tired." His voice was soft, almost a whisper. No sooner were the words out of his mouth, I began to feel my eyelids falling. My body jolted reflexively, rejecting the idea of having sleep pushed upon it, but to little avail. I became more sedate with every passing second, soon unable to move, my limbs weighed down, my eyes drifting closed despite my best efforts to stave off sleep.

Suddenly, I awoke, the weight of sedation lifted from my body. I took to my feet, as I quickly realized the world around me had descended into darkness. I could see nothing beyond the bars of my cell, the torch lights that should have burned in the corridor were gone, outside nothing but a tangible blackness. A scrape from behind me caused me to start and turn. There stood Delber, taller than any man I'd ever seen, his clean shaved head nearly brushing the stone ceiling.

"I must bid you goodnight, sister, but remember this," he began, his dark voice echoing in my head. His mouth did not open, his words conveyed directly to my mind, "My lord is alive, and I am alive, and I am a taker of souls."

Those ominous words echoed in my mind, making me feel fear, _real _fear, for the first time in as long as I could remember.

"Fear me not, sister," his voice rumbled again. He brought his massive, calloused hands together, cupping them as if sheltering something very small between them. He opened them again, revealing a perfect sphere of amber. He reached over, grasping my hand without even taking a step toward me, and pressed the stone into my palm, closing my fingers around it. "Fear me not, sister," he repeated, lifting his hand and placing it on the back of his neck, "Your soul is not mine to take."

From the flesh of his neck he pulled a long thread, drawing it out an arm's length. He then turned away from me, revealing the seam in his neck, which he was untying. Delber pulled the thread further, a hole forming in the flesh of his neck as the seam came undone. He pushed his thick fingers into the empty, bloodless slot, pulling with both hands to stretch it wide open. He pulled his flesh away like fabric, revealing nothing beneath. The skin of his head, neck, and shoulders hung around his chest, molded around the invisible form of his body. Finally, it all fell away, landing in a heap on the floor.

"Wake up!"

* * *

I shot awake, immediately blinded by a beam of morning light shooting through the window of my cell. Prying one eye half way open, I spotted the silhouette of a guard just beyond the bars of my cell. He knelt, slipping a small plate and a chipped cup of water between the bars of my cell, walking away without a word. When I regained my sight, I plucked the slices of rock hard bread from the plate, though I didn't feel particularly hungry. I ate them anyway, since the last time I'd visited a prison the bread had been both hard _and_ moldy.

I turned to look towards Delber's cell, still trying to get my teeth through the bricks they'd given me for breakfast. It was empty. A shiver crawled up my spine, causing me to drop the bread, which thumped solidly on the floor. It couldn't have been, but there it was, or rather, there it _wasn't._ I sat in shocked silence for some time, pondering whether or not it could have all been a dream. Had Sheogorath or Vaernmina decided to visit me in the night and torment me in my dreams? Had Delber really been a messenger for some faceless, unknown god? Somehow I doubted either was true. The novelty of his promise being fulfilled quickly wore off, and I came to the conclusion he told me a wild tale simply for attention, when really he'd committed some tame crime and only had to spend a night.

Suddenly, from far down the draft hallway, a commotion started up. I moved closer to the bars of my cell, panicked voices ringing out, but impossible to discern as they echoed. Slowly, it faded, first to a quiet murmur, then back to the dank silence I'd come to know and love. I paid it little heed, as someone always had to try and escape from the Imperial Prison. I'd been there half a dozen times before learning that there was no escape, not even for a man Delber's size. Not without divine intervention.

Hours later, another guard came to my cell and unlocked it.

"You're being released," he muttered, looking quite shaken and pale.

"Is something wrong?" I inquired, curiosity getting the better of me.

The man simply shook his head, breathing a soft sigh. "We lost our jailer last night," he muttered, too bothered to keep his reserve and refuse to speak to a prisoner, "Found him this morning, slumped over his desk, pale as death. No signs of a fight or poison. His heart just...stopped." The distraught man wouldn't meet my eyes, head hanging as if he'd not the energy to hold it up.

"Pity," I replied, feeling a vague twinge of sorrow. Sometimes I receive the briefest touches of emotion, but they fade quickly and I forget what they feel like.

Again becoming curious I turned toward Delber's vacant cell. "What was the man in cell arrested for?"

The guard turned briefly. "There's not been a man in that cell for two days," he replied briefly, lifting his head long enough to give me a strange look, this time. "Perhaps you've had too much rotmeth lately."

Though I'm sure I didn't show it I was stunned. Could the whole conversation have really been a dream?

The guard led me out of the labyrinth of cells and up to the desk where the jailor used to sit. I looked at the empty chair and another shiver rolled up my spine, the hairs of my neck stood on end.

"You'll now receive the belongings confiscated from you upon your arrest," he recited, having clearly given this speech countless times before. He opened the nearby trunk and laid my armor and other belongings upon the table. I bundled them up beneath my arm, their presence comforting me. I couldn't wait to have them back on. For me, being without my leathers is like being without skin.

Looking puzzled, the guard reached back into the chest and curled his hand around something. "Odd," he mused, looking at the tiny thing in the palm of his hand, "I don't remember seeing this in there a moment ago. I'm sure the chest was empty." He held the small piece of amber up to the light. "Does this belong to you?"

I must have looked surprised, though I don't remember the feeling very well, because he asked me what the matter was. I told him it was nothing, and that the stone did indeed belong to me.

"It's yours, eh? Where did you get it?" He was suspicious, though I hadn't lied. Delber _had _given me the stone. I merely told him I'd found it on the ground, and that it must have rolled out of my pocket. He couldn't very well keep me locked up for something he thought I might have stolen, so he let me go, warning me to keep my nose clean. I told him I would, which we both knew was a lie.

* * *

I still have that perfect little sphere of amber. I keep it tucked away in a jewelry box on my desk. Every time I start to doubt the existence of things I cannot see I take it out and look at it and remember that merely because it can't be examined doesn't mean it can _be_.

I decided that Delber's god may not have been one of the Daedra or one of the Nine. He could very well have been something else entirely. Or maybe he wasn't. Either way it does not matter. There are terrible powers in this world. There are beings that can create and destroy simply by blinking. It does no good to cower in fear of them, fretting that they might come through my door or invade my dreams. If they decide to, then they will. Gods have been bested before, and they will be bested again.

I should know.


	3. Quenching a Thirst

_Author's Note: Just to be clear, this is the first part of what will be a multi-part installment._

* * *

Again, I've gotten ahead of myself. I suppose I should tell you how I came to be an assassin in the first place, or more specifically, how I came to be a member of the Dark story begins fifty years ago, in the town of Leyawiin, decades before it became part of Cyrodiil. At the time I was a member of the Thieves Guild, making my way with independent thievery. I'd cased a house on the southern end of Leyawiin, rented property belonging to a rather neurotic Imperial. He was the type of man who might as well not have neighbors, as he never spoke to anyone. A stout, balding fellow, he only left his house to drink late in the evenings, and returned promptly an hour later, having only had two drinks. He did this every night, save for Sundas. On Sundas, he went to the chapel of Zenithar for two hours in the morning. I once observed him during his stay, and it was quite an odd thing to see. Most of the chapel-goers (there were not many) sat in groups or pairs and chatted quietly to one another. Meaningless gossip, mostly, but occasionally I'd hear rumors worth investigating. A friend of a friend of a great-nephew in Chorrol had come into a small fortune, or a second cousin's sister-in-law to-be had received an enormous engagement ring. The rest was usually verbal refuse spewed forth from pious, holier-than-thou mouths of middle-aged women. It all made me a bit ill, to be honest.

This Imperial—whose name I've just remembered, it was Aurellius—was an author. He never wrote much of consequence, but apparently he drew in enough gold to pay his way. I figured that none of a living writer's books would be of much value except to the writer himself, but he must have a few nice things stashed away. With any luck, he'd be far too distracted to know they were missing until long after I'd fenced them. You'd be surprised how little the average person pays attention to their daily surroundings, especially when they're as wrapped up in their work as Aurellius.

* * *

I began drawing up plans to sneak into his house on Sundas morning. I'd have two hours all to myself, so there wouldn't be need to rush, but I kept in mind that any good robbery is performed expeditiously. After that, I'd take the loot out far from town as quickly as I possibly could.

The day came, and I woke especially early to prepare myself. I dressed in dark clothing, something different than the peasant garb I usually wore. I'd sewn a hood onto the neck of the black shirt I wore for the purpose of hiding my identity during jobs. I took a few lockpicks along, and at the last minute, decided to tuck a dagger under my belt. This final decision would change my entire life.

In a way, Aurellius was the perfect target. He stuck to his schedule, living his daily routine in a way that was nearly mechanical, and rarely deviated in even the smallest ways. An introvert who'd settled into a comfortable, exploitable rut. A thief's dream, in other words. I waited patiently for him to leave, which he did, right on time. When he was out of sight, and I was sure no one else lurked nearby, I picked the lock and slipped inside.

The house was dim, but early morning light shone through the windows and gave me all the visibility I needed. I began looking around, but nothing much presented itself. A few first edition copies of old books, which I slipped into a bag, and a set of silver plates, which I deemed too cumbersome and not rewarding enough for the trouble. Silver wasn't much more valuable back then than it is now. I'd spent only a few minutes inside, and already the room seemed tapped for any goods worth fencing.

I started towards another door, likely the one leading to Aurellius' bedroom, but something caught my eye. The house was almost excruciatingly untidy, sheets of parchment, ink-stained quills, and random bits of detritus scattered all about the room, obviously the dwelling of a busy artist. Consequently, he'd also not taken the time to decorate it very well. The walls were painfully bare, showing the cracks caused by the moist, constantly shifting ground in southern Tamriel. However, on the west wall, right beside a cupboard with a missing hinge, there was a painting hung on the wall. The work itself was rather unremarkable; a mediocre capturing of the Abecean Sea, but the art wasn't what was important. There were no other paintings in the room. In fact, there was very little decoration of any kind. Not a rug or a vase in the entire room. Even the books, something one might imagine an author would take pride, had been sloppily pushed onto the shelves. The painting, however, had recently been given attention. There was a small smudge on the frame where the dust had been disturbed, and the picture was straight on its handing, tidied contrary to the rest of them room. I reached out, figuring it wouldn't do any harm to indulge my hunch. I lifted the picture, and behind it was a lockbox built right into the damned wall.

Aurellius must have figured no one would ever think to look behind a wall hanging, as the lock was ridiculously simple to force. Inside the lock box were a few documents, a deed, an old, yellowed manuscript, which I stashed in the bag, and a few letters. There were also several rings with large stones, and a gaudy, but authentic, necklace. I took all the items of jewelry and dropped them into my bag. That's when the front door opened.

I'll never know why Aurellius chose to come home early that day. There was no reason for him to break his rut. I'd studied his routine for weeks, and he'd left the house no less prepared than he ever had. The only thing I'm sure of, is that when I turned my head and saw that pudgy figure standing in the doorway, his thinning hair creating a soft halo above his head, I reacted. There was a brief moment of what I know to be panic, and then there was only reaction. I drew the dagger I'd tucked into my belt and threw it as I whirled to face him.

The entire event unfolded in mere seconds, though it seemed an eternity, as terrible moments are wont to do. For a split second I could see the dagger spinning through the air. In that fraction of a moment, I knew the dagger wasn't made to be thrown and wouldn't kill him. I knew it would bounce harmlessly off his protruding stomach and clatter to the floor. I would end up running for my life through the treacherous swamps surrounding Leyawiin, eventually chased down and captured by the Khajiit, and I'd spend quite a long time in the city's sodden, fetid dungeon. I'd cough and wheeze amongst the fungus which grew all along the damp walls. I'd drink tepid well water and eat soggy, moldy portions of bread. I'd come out stinking of jungle rot, and I'd have to burn the clothes they gave me. The smell would never come out. Moments like those make me grateful for my people's hardy constitution and immunity to most diseases.

You can imagine my surprise when the blade, against all odds, stuck dead center in the man's chest. He stumbled briefly backward and fell heavily upon the dirt outside his front door. For a moment I stood there, stunned by the sheer improbability of the situation. I regained myself, and pulled Aurellius inside, shutting the door as his head crossed the threshold. Thinking quickly, I dragged the body further into the house, stashing it in a dark corner. I'd never murdered anyone before, and my inexperience told me that perhaps doing something to hide him would buy me more time. I pulled the dagger from his chest, cleaned it on his shirt, then absconded with what I'd managed to put in my bag.

I sold the stolen goods in town, then left Leyawiin and Elswyr altogether, making my way up along the Niben towards Bravil. I could hide there, amongst the other dregs of humanity living there. Even back then, the town was a shamble, perfect for hiding all manner of rats.

The Leyawiin guard never caught on to who murdered Aurellius and, considering I don't plan to publish this little work, never will. I doubt many who'd remember the crime are still living, anyway. The Thieves Guild, however, has eyes and ears everywhere. When I arrived in Bravil, there was a note slid under the door of the house I was staying in. It dismissed me from the guild for murder, informing me that I could pay a Blood Price to gain reentry, but I had no interest. They'd not sell me out for the murder. I simply set the note aflame on the house's solitary candle and let the parchment burn down to my fingertips before crushing it out against the wall.

The house I was staying in at the time belonged to my mentor, a man I won't mention by name, as I promised him I wouldn't do so after I learned his true name. He was out on business along with his wife, who I've sworn a similar promise to, and wouldn't be back for nearly a month, but he'd informed me his home would always be open to me if I ever needed a place to lay low. That being said, he wouldn't risk incrimination, and never left me a key. I had to pick the lock every time I entered, and if I were ever discovered, I'd deny any knowledge of him. I'd arrived late in the afternoon the day after I'd murdered Aurellius, and the sun took too long to set. I laid down on the cot in the corner, and drifted into uneasy sleep.

Nights in a Bravil home aren't much easier than nights out of doors. The walls are thin, often filled with holes. The air is thick and pungent with the sound and smells of a slum. The musk of the unwashed masses, the sour stench of vomit and alcohol, punctuated by the barks and whimpers of wild dogs and the angry grunts of brawlers in the street can keep one up during the night, simply out of fear that all that nastiness might somehow spill through your locked door. Even against such opposition, I drifted off to sleep, uneasy as it was.

I had shadowy dreams that night. I walked down an unlit hallway. Formless things shifted in the shadows all around me. They watched me with an unwavering intensity, softly chattering from their refuge in the palpable darkness on either side of me. At the end of the hallway was an ornate fountain, water babbling from its many spouts. Though I was far away, I knew the water to be clean and cold, as if it had trickled from the snow caps of the Jerall Mountains. I was so thirsty, and with every step I took I could smell the running water more clearly. I could practically taste it.

The stirring in the shadows grew more furious , their indiscernible voices growing louder, more cacophonous, as I approached the fountain. The fountain was made of a strange stone, smooth like marble but perfectly black without a single flaw in its surface. I dipped my hands into the water, colder than the knife I'd buried in Aurellius' heart, colder than anything I'd ever experienced, and brought them to my mouth.

What passed my lips was not water. My mouth was suddenly filled with a familiar flavor, something I'd tasted many times, but couldn't quite place. The chattering around me had grown into a deafening roar so loud it made my skin crawl. I realized what I'd put into my mouth. I looked down into the black stone fountain and confirmed it.

Blood. Gallons of it trickled down the carved stone and pooled in the bowl. I stared at my own reflection. My countenance was captured in the deepest crimson, and my reflection spoke to me in a voice that was not my own.

"Isn't it wonderful, my sister?"

* * *

I woke in a cold sweat; the voice still rang in my ears. The chattering, so deafeningly loud in my dreams, dissolved into a soft patter. Rain whispered all around me, the occasional drop seeped through the deteriorating wood and tapped me on my forehead. I looked around the dark shanty, searching for the source of the voice that had belonged to my reflection. The room was absolutely black. I couldn't see my hand in front of my face, much less anyone who might have been around me. I reasoned through the shock, convincing myself that anyone in the room would have struck by now. The rapid pulsing of my heart kept insisting otherwise. I wasn't afraid mind you, but reacting in the natural way, getting ready to go for blood or run from an enemy I wouldn't be able to defeat. Either would have been hard in the cramped, pitch dark shack. Luckily, I didn't have to do either. I I laid my head back down, closed my eyes, and tried to keep my frantic heart not to burst in my chest.

"It is a glorious feeling," the voice—a female, no less—spoke again, hidden somewhere in the all concealing dark of night, "Sating that thirst for the first time. Murder is like moonsugar. The first time is frightening, but exhilarating. You're terrified beyond words by the novelty of the experience, yet you want more as soon as that feeling wears off."

"Who are you?" I demanded. I don't take kindly to having people sneak up on me while I sleep. Then again, I doubt anyone does.

"Oh, where are my manners?" the woman chastised herself, sounding genuinely embarrassed. She illuminated the room with a brilliant green glow. I shielded my eyes from the sudden burst of light as she continued to introduce herself. "My name is Earlana. I've come on behalf of our loving mother." I could hear the smile in her voice.

"You think we have the same mother? Is that why you called me sister?" I asked, still shielding my face.

She laughed good-naturedly, the floor beneath her creaking. "In a way, I do. I believe we're of the same mother and father, you and me."

Finally, I could take my hands away from my face. "I don't know who you are, but I have no sisters, so you must be mistaken." There I sat under worn sheets, acutely aware I was not prepared to fend off an attack.

Earlana merely smiled. "I'm talking about the Night Mother. The mother of our kindred spirits, Tarafel." I had no idea how she knew my name. "Yes, I know a lot about you, dear sister," she went on, stepping closer. "I know that not long ago you killed in cold blood for the first time, and I know you desire deep down inside to kill again."

She was right. I couldn't place why, but something about killing Aurellius felt right. It felt good.

"Your life as a thief wasn't fulfilling," she began, frowning sympathetically, her dark hood shadowing her brow as she lowered her head. "You went through the motions day after day. The thrill of making off with someone else's possessions and the strategy involved in casing a home, those things only held your interest for so long." She reached over, making a motherly attempt to move my hair away from my face. I shied away, causing her to draw her hand back, the both of us somewhat embarrassed. "And then," she continued, her fervor renewed, "the fateful day came. Without a second thought you ended a man's life, and as his skin became pale and cold, yours was filled with warmth."

I sat still, wordlessly looking at the Nord. She grinned too wide and gestured too passionately for my liking—a zealot if I'd ever seen one. Still, she was right. Earlana had picked my feelings to a tee. Her analysis was so accurate, I could only wonder if the Night Mother wasn't a daedra who'd stolen a gaze into my heart.

"You'd like me to cut to the chase, as it were. I understand." From behind her back she drew a handsome ebony bow. "This bow is a virgin weapon, yet to spill blood. It was crafted for you before we even knew your name." She placed the weapon on the foot of the bed. "At the Faregyll Inn south of the Imperial City, there's an old Orc named Kragnok gro-Balrog. A spurned soul has called for his blood. Send his soul into the Void to swim at our father's feet." The aura of light surrounding her suddenly faded, leaving only the thick blackness of night.

"End the Orc's life, Tarafel. Sate your thirst and our mother's pact." The door briefly creaked open, the succinctly clapped shut. Silence filled the small, muggy room.

Despite my best efforts, I could not sleep. I kept reaching out to touch the cold, flawless surface of the bow. I plucked its string, listened to its soft thrum. It had been a long time since I'd even held a bow, much less fired one. And yet, as I held that weapon, I felt it was as much a part of me as the hand that held it. My hands fell right back into their proper places.

I didn't try to fool myself. I knew that come the morning I'd start northward toward Faregyll Inn, and would take the life of the Orc staying there.

Tonight, however, I am too weary to recall the rest of the necessary memories for properly putting this tale to page. I shall continue tomorrow, hopefully refreshed. I shall need to be to write what I shall be writing, as the mere memory fills me with a sort of uneasiness. Until then, I rest.


End file.
